My second job

I am quickly learning that my second job is that of taxi driver. I am the mom taxi. I need one of those clever bumper stickers that declares my status as taxi driver. I can spend anywhere from 20 minutes to a couple of hours running children to various sporting practices and events about three to four days a week.

The more driving I do, the more I wish for my extended van with separate bucket seats for each child. That way, no one can touch anyone else. They would have to fashion a poking stick in order to bother their neighbor. As it is, I rarely make it to our destination without witnessing WWF in the rear view mirror. If you are ever driving along and see a mini-van pulled over with children sitting or screaming on the side of the road, it's probably me. You can't have time-out in a van in which your neighbor is easily accessible.

The cleanliness of my vehicle has never been top priority, but this fall with the introduction of three or four children in sports, it's a virtual nightmare in there. I think there's a secret stash of sippies buried in the mess. The milk in them has likely turned to cheese. I'm only guessing at their location, I haven't actually spotted them. I just know they have been disappearing and we are down to about three sippies in the drawer. And no matter how often I tell the children not to take toys in the car, it seems there's at least a toy box worth of toys in the van.

Of course it doesn't help that I pack things in there that I never take out. I like to think of it as being prepared for any possible situation. There's a picnic blanket and a camping chair, just in case. There are almost always extra shoes. There's also a first aid kit that slides back and forth across the floor as I drive. See, it's really preparation, not 'lazy mom who doesn't want to clean out the filthy van'.

And this taxi driver will only listen to 'Mary had a little lamb' once a week. The rest of the time it's Rob Thomas or the radio. If the small people I call my children are going to torture me in the car, then I at least get the satisfaction of listening to Rob Thomas. He makes even a screaming toddler bearable!

I bark at my children

I know that makes me strange, but it's woefully true. I bark at my children. Sometimes the mood strikes me and I just have to bark. And yes, I mean like a dog. They think it's funny. Or at least they laugh. They probably just think I'm weird. Which I am. But if you can't bark at your children, who can you bark at?

I make other strange noises too. I don't limit myself to barking. I do a pretty darn good horse, but mostly just the galloping part. I think that's why O climbs on me and declares 'horsey' on a regular basis. I squeal at the baby and blow raspberries. I've perfected both of those skills. I can quack like a duck, but I don't waddle. At least not right now. A few months ago, I was most likely waddling.

I realize that I must sound like some kind of Old MacDonald freak, but I'm ok with that.

I spent my teenage years trying to be 'oh so serious'. Sure, I had friends that I let loose with, but I was always worried that people would think I was weird. Well, now that I'm all grown up, I could care less. I am weird! Other people don't have to live with me. And those that do? Well, they get what they get and they don't get to throw a fit. (Thank you preschool teachers for that lovely saying!) And if they throw a fit? Time out for you!

And now you know the truth about me: I bark at my children and I'm proud of it!

A toddler obsessed

"Penny pockey", I hear O yell for the one millionth time. O has an obsession. She loves pennies. She holds them all day and wants them in either her pockets or mine. But she can't say pocket, so it comes out pockey.

If she finds one on the floor, it's like discovering gold. She squeals with delight, jumps up and down and grins from ear to ear. And it doesn't matter what size, or nationality the coin is, they are all pennies to her. She doesn't discriminate.

From time to time, she puts them in her mouth. But with many stern warnings that they will be taken away, she's gotten better. She no longer brings them to me in her mouth to spit out.(See this post.)

She insists on wearing pants with 'pockeys' so that she has somewhere to store her many pennies. And if there aren't any clean pocket pants, I had better be equipped with 'pockeys' or there will be hell to pay!

Because of this new obsession, there are pennies littering the floor of my home. She's emptied the coin jar on my desk and throws gargantuan fits if you happen upon a penny and don't immediately return it to her. It doesn't matter if it's not her penny. They are ALL hers. I have a toddler obsessed. Obsessed with pennies.

I swore I'd never...

I swore I'd never get married young like my mom. So, I got married at 20 1/2 instead of 19.

I swore I'd never be a stay-at-home mom. It looked so boring. I've been a stay-at-home mom for ten years and I'm not sure where the time went.

I swore I'd never drive a minivan. I wanted to be a cool mom and drive an SUV. We bought our first minivan when I was 25.

I swore I'd never have more than four kids. We have six.

I swore I'd never count at my children. We count to three on a regular basis.

I swore I'd never yell at my children. I wish I could say that I don't. But I do.

I swore I'd never be a mean mom and make my kids wash dishes. They have a dish chore every night after dinner.

I swore I'd never use the television as a babysitter. A little TV never killed anyone, right?

I swore I'd never be a runner. I ran three miles yesterday and am seriously contemplating running a half-marathon in the spring.

I swore I'd never give birth without an epidural. I've done it twice. By choice.

The moral of the story? Never say never.

Contents atop the dryer

Today is laundry day. Ok, every day is laundry day. But today I start the week o'laundry. As I loaded in the first load of laundry this morning, I found myself staring at the contents atop the dryer. I was fascinated by what I found, yet utterly unwilling to clean it off.

Here is what I found:

1. A giant flashlight with no battery.
2. The spray and wash
3. Contact solution
4. Conditioner
5. A screwdriver
6. Ink pads for the stamps I rarely use
7. 1 diaper
8. 3 pairs of baby legs
9. A notepad for making to-do lists (a little irony here)
10. Another flashlight
11. A cereal bowl used for collecting all the change I find in the washer (I made a dollar last week!)
12. Odessa's skirt
13. Doll clothes
14. A plastic yellow spider
15. A green sticky hand
16. Rose and flower care
17. Sunscreen
18. Silver acrylic spray paint
19. A Magic Treehouse book
20. Michael's white church shirt
21. A nightlight with accompanying bulbs
22. A giant ziploc baggie with wetwipes in it
23. A white wide-brimmed hat
24. A water bottle



What's atop your dryer today?

Ten things that scream "We have children!"

If you didn't know me and you came to my house and wandered through it, you'd say to yourself, 'children live here'. Here's ten reasons why.

1.The bottom pole on the banister has been taped together with scotchtape. And retaped. And retaped.

2.In the bathroom there is a little potty next to the big potty. And soap all over the counter. And bandaid garbage on the floor.

3.The fort that has taken up residence in my front formal room.

4.Baby paraphernalia is a dead give-away. The swing, bouncer, bumbo, floor mat. Babies take up a lot of space!

5.Socks and shoes of all sizes scattered hither and yon.

6.The kitchen table that has a princess coloring book cover permanently adhered to it.

7.The toddler hiding in the pantry snitching chips. Ok, so if we weren't home, she wouldn't be either!

8.Crumbs, crumbs and more crumbs.

9.Sticky or dirty doorknobs.

10.Toys everywhere. They multiply in the night I tell you.

Laundry

Laundry will be the death of me. I'm certain of it. I can wash it. I can dry it. But for some reason, folding it and putting it away eludes me. It does happen, but it takes a near act of God, or hosting playgroup. That will do it too.

Folding laundry is often a family event and this is how this week's event went:

I sat down on the floor and put the baby on her blanket next to me. The kids each found a spot on the floor and I started chucking their laundry at them. (It's more fun if you throw it at them and attempt to make it land on their heads.) We then endured a few rounds of children chanting, "(Name)likes to wear, dirty underwear." There were variations and much protesting by the person named that they do NOT like to wear dirty underwear. Then there was O declaring loudly when she found an item of clothing that was hers. There was gnashing and whaling of teeth by K when I informed her she had to put her clothes away.

At one point I stopped and looked up and realized all six of my children were joyously, rambunctiously and loudly enjoying the weekly laundry folding. I think it could best be described as organized chaos. The boys were throwing a pair of shorts back and forth, each declaring that they didn't own them. L was on her head, as usual, and E was intrigued by all the noise.

I have to say that for about five minutes, I didn't mind folding laundry. But don't worry, I got over it quickly and am officially back to not liking it again. Blasted laundry!!